Where Worlds Collide and Days are Dark
by teaattheabbey
Summary: When an ex-MI6 agent returns to London after years on the run, he finds work in the house of a reclusive and troubled heiress as he desperately tries to outrun his past and adjust to civilian life. The pair inevitably begin to fall for each other, though the two lost souls will soon learn that happily ever afters don't exist outside of fairytales. A Rock the Spy AU story.
1. The Ghosts of London Town

_**So, here we are again, even though I promised I wouldn't start anything new and just focus on getting my other fics finished before gracefully bowing out and retiring from writing, though the Rock the Spy AU was just to good to resist. I think this story borders more on the crime/gangster genre (having been influenced by the film London Boulevard which is MASSIVELY underrated but we'll talk about that another time) but I hope all becomes clear as we go on. Not sure when I'll update this next, but I may post little snapshots on my blog (teaattheabbey over on Tumblr) from time to time. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

The house fascinates him - it's like a snapshot of the past suspended in time, as though the clocks stopped turning at the end of nineteen-twenty-three. His fingers ghost across the ivories of a well loved piano, perfectly in tune despite its age, as his eyes study the faces of those long since departed from this world, staring back at him from their gilded frames. He can almost hear the music, the laughter and chatter of the great and the good of London society gathered in the heart of Belgravia at the height of the summer season. The lady of the house lives alone, he's told, and he can't help but wonder how she stands it.

In truth, the lady loves it. This is her castle, her fortress; the one place where she can truly escape from the world's prying eyes and live without fear just long enough to be herself. She takes pleasure in the simple things like long, steaming showers after a day of travelling. She stands there under the cascade of water, all her worries and fears cleansed away leaving only the scent of orange blossom lingering on her rosy skin. She's oblivious to the man downstairs - the only outsider to have set foot inside her sanctuary for longer than she can remember. Intruders are something that the lady lives in constant fear of, for there are those who would be driven by their obsession who would stop at nothing to discover the truth about her rather obscure existence. She's usually the sort who abhors violence, but still she keeps her grandfather's old Webley hidden beneath the floorboards should the need arise to really defend herself.

Though she often prays to a God she doesn't believe in that it will never come to that.

He isn't a burglar, but he supposes that he is an intruder of sorts. He's here without her knowledge, without her permission in a way, and he's not quite sure where to start. He was so desperately in need of a job that he hadn't exactly stopped to question just what it was that he was being employed to do. Still, as long as there's less of a chance that he's going to end up killed or maimed than there was in his last job, then that's fine by him. If he didn't posses any prior knowledge, he would have said that this was a house that belonged to a wealthy old widow whose bloodline was long and blue in colour, who only inherited her possessions and never bought anything. He's been warned that their paths will probably never cross, though his curiosity has been piqued and he rather hopes that they do.

Stepping out of the shower, she wipes a hand across the mirror and studies her reflection. Her skin is flushed and she's lost weight again. Admittedly, she hasn't really been looking after herself as of late and maybe she should listen to people when they say that she needs to get away from it all, even for just a week or two. She'd tried, she really had, but two days in Yorkshire had driven her mad with boredom and she'd managed to sneak back to the capital without anybody noticing. She wraps a towel around herself, not for the first time wishing that she could remember how it felt to feel the embrace of another living human. She wonders if it's strange to want to know how it is to feel loved - a great romantic love like in the books she adores so much. Though, after everything she's been through, all that loss and heartbreak, she thinks she deserves at least the chance to find out.

The smash of a glass pulls her from her musings; her heart starts to race and her breath quickens. She immediately jumps to conclusion and thinks that her worst fears have come true. They've managed to get into the house and she doesn't feel safe. She runs out of the bathroom, through her bedroom and out down the hall to the old study with the loose floorboard. She's so light on her feet that there's next to no chance of disturbing the intruder as she retrieves the pistol and makes her way downstairs. Whoever it is is in the kitchen, running the tap and muttering things in a language she doesn't understand.

It's always amazed him how he spent so long doing the job that he did and could yet still remain so clumsy in domestic situations. He hadn't even seen the glass, not until it shattered and sliced through his skin. Cursing in the tongue of his forefathers, he runs his hand under the water and watches as the blood swirls around the sink and down the plughole. It's then that he hears it, his heightened senses trained to pick up even the slightest movements, the noise a safety catch being released as familiar to him now as someone calling his own name. Neglecting his wounded hand for a moment, he looks over his shoulder to see a young woman dressed in nothing but a towel, her dark hair dripping wet and leaving a puddle on the floor as she stands there, breathing heavily and holding a gun aloft with a shaking hand.

"Well now," he says. "You aren't going to do much damage pointing it at me like that."

_**-xxx-**_

**Two Days Earlier**

It's sad, he thinks to himself, that his life can be packed away in a storage unit in some forgotten part of East London with no family or friends to mourn his disappearance. Well, he does have family, they just don't really know the truth about what he does and so it's always just been easier to pretend - they think he's in the army, stationed abroad before being posted in Afghanistan for a prolonged tour of duty.

Though the truth is far more dangerous than that.

For almost two years, Tom Branson has been on the run.

He knew it was about time he came home and faced the ghosts of his past, wanting nothing more than to turn his back on the double life he's led for far too long now and discovering what it means to be normal. Given everything that had happened, Dublin was off limits, though he'd be sure to somehow get back into Ireland undetected by those who no doubt still hunt him and pay his Mam a visit. He'll find a way around it though - he always does in the end - but it can wait for tonight as he has other plans. His brother, Kieran, wants to meet for a drink at one of his new favourite haunts - he's recently moved to London from Liverpool to set up his own business, deciding there's more money to be made down south. Tom sighs as he flicks through the clothes rack from which all his old suits hang from, the once perfectly tailored garments now undoubtedly ill-fitting on account of the fact that he's hardly in peak physical condition anymore so it's probably a good job that the boozer his brother has in mind isn't the kind of place one would try to make an effort and so he settles for just the jacket with a pair of jeans and a blue cotton shirt instead.

**_-xxx- _**

Kieran hadn't shown the slightest bit of concern when Tom had made his excuses and stepped outside the pub for a moment, but then he'd been a bit preoccupied with ogling the beautiful blonde standing at the bar to notice his brother's unease. He'd known it was a bad idea to venture into this part of town - the East End is rife with gangsters, but he'd been overly optimistic to think that there was an incredibly slim chance of running into one who might recognise him. He swiftly makes his exit out onto the street and lights up a cigarette, a habit he's recently picked up again after abstaining for so long, and waits until it's safe for him to return inside. His attention is soon drawn to an immaculately dressed young woman - her Mulberry handbag and the brand new private plated Fiat 500 she's recklessly abandoned at the side of the road scream money and the fact she's not from around these parts - fumbles around in her handbag for her purse. Two hooded youths are following close behind, their intentions clear to one who has spent so much time around criminals. In what some would see as a rather bold move, Tom approaches the woman and puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry, love," he says with a smile as she jumps right out of her skin. "Didn't mean to scare you. I thought you'd got lost."

The woman is confused, but one look over his shoulder and she sees that the youths have turned their backs and have given up their pursuit, this strange man's intentions suddenly becoming clear. "I'm sorry," she says in an accent that's most definitely not local, playing along with his charade. "I should have text you. Traffic was a nightmare."

Tom stands protectively by her side as she draws out her cash from the machine, glaring at the two boys until they're well out of sight.

"Thanks for that," she says. "Maybe I should have listened to my Dad when he tried to warn me about the big bad city."

Tom laughs. "Not everyone's out to do you harm," he says. "But there are those that will if you keep drawing attention to yourself."

The girl smiles, knowing that he's right. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm not really in any hurry to get anywhere. Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?"

He knows that he probably shouldn't, but there's something about this girl that he likes and, besides, people are less likely to hassle him when he's in a group. "Sure," Tom nods. "Why not? I know this place looks like a bit of a shithole, but it's cheaper than anywhere even half decent in the city and my brother's in there."

"Lead the way," she says and, like a true gentleman, he offers her his arm as they head back inside the pub.

**_-xxx-_**

Having brought back a woman, Kieran is now suddenly interested in making conversation. They learn that her name is Gwen, she's from a small village in rural Yorkshire and she's currently working as a PA in the city.

"So, what do you two do?" she asks, picking up her wine glass.

"I'm a mechanic," Kieran says. "Started up my own garage almost a year ago. Tommy's a soldier."

"**Was**," he says, the lie almost too easy to tell now.

Gwen raises her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by this revelation. "So what are you doing at the moment?"

"Unemployed," Tom replies. "And trying to adjust to civilian life."

"Are you good at keeping secrets?"

"Better than most."

"Good with your hands?"

"I suppose so."

"Then I might just have a job for you. You see, I have this friend..."

**_-xxx-_**

She rummages through her knicker drawer, desperately searching for the thing that she swears she'd seen not that long ago.

"Shit," she curses, finally finding the box of Tampax which, as luck would have it, happens to be empty. "Shit shit shit!" She'd lost all track of the days whilst up in the country, each and every one seeming to blend seamlessly into one another. Her period had crept up on her sooner than expected and she's not had chance to do an online shop yet and order some more. There's only one thing for it - she's going to have to venture outside.

She adores winter, for she can cover as much of herself up as she chooses on the rare occasions that she leaves the house, obscuring most of her face with thick, chunky scarves and hats, the bright winter sunlight still affording her an excuse to wear sunglasses.

But even then they still seem to recognise her.

They sniff her out, circling her like vultures over a rotting carcass, desperate to get a photograph of the elusive Sybil Crawley, because a picture says a thousand words and it'll put food on the table for the rest of the month. She is a commodity to be traded between the tabloids, the poor little rich girl who hides herself away from the world leaving them to gossip and speculate in the absence of her side of the story.

She's been told that she could probably make them all go away if she just told them the truth about her tragic past, but Sybil is smart and she knows that speaking out will only infect her wounds until she rots away.

Swallowing hard, she steps through the doors of the Tesco Metro at the end of the street, telling herself that it's not that bad. She doesn't come here much and she's not exactly where she might find what it is she's looking for though is too afraid to ask at the risk of drawing too much attention to herself. She decides to grab a loaf of bread too, her self-proclaimed "butler" having used most of the last loaf to make toast in the middle of the night again, and makes a beeline for the self check-out. She's beginning to think this has been a rather successful outing when it all starts to go horribly wrong - the zip on her purse getting stuck on the corner of a twenty-pound note, change flying everywhere as she tugs it a little too harshly. A kindly girl no older than about sixteen bends down to help her retrieve the scattered coins, gasping in surprise as Sybil thanks her.

"Oh my God," she says. "You're Sybil Crawley."

"No... I..."  
It happens then in a fraction of a second, a lone paparazzo who had momentarily stood down from his post outside her house to pop to the shop for a bag of crisps and something to drink suddenly turns towards her, his camera poised and focused in her direction. Stuffing her purchases into her bag, Sybil runs home as fast as her feet will carry her, slamming the front door behind her and slumping down on the floor, her body heaving with sobs as the shock kicks in. She hates what her life has become, despises the woman she has grown into having once been a bright and vibrant young girl with so much joie de vivre and wonders why fate has been so cruel to her these past ten years.

**_-xxx-_**

Gwen had summoned him to tea somewhere in Soho the day after their first meeting, introducing her to another of her numerous acquaintances. Thomas Barrow was a washed up actor and failed playwright, a man who spent much of his time chasing dragons and tripping the light fantastic with the excuse that he was trying to find his muse. He claimed to live in Belgravia, sharing a house with the friend that Gwen had vaguely told Tom about, looking after her and making sure she kept her sanity intact.

"_Ironic, I know,_" he'd said in a thick Mancunian drawl. "_Given that I can barely look after myself. I may not have achieved much in my life, but I am fiercely protective of this woman and that's one of the few things I can honestly say I'm proud of_."

Tom hadn't understood just how he'd fit into the equation but, apparently, it all boiled down to the fact that Thomas wasn't much use when the increasingly more invasive paparazzi managed to get onto the property and had only done more damage to himself by fracturing his hand when he'd tried to punch one of them recently.

"_So you want me to be some princess's bodyguard?_" he'd asked, sitting back in his chair and looking far from impressed.

"_Not as such,_" Gwen had said. "_Thomas is also shite at DIY. We need a handyman... one who's also quite handy with his fists, if you know what I'm saying._"  
"_I don't know..."_

_ "Fine,_" Gwen sighed. "_I hear the Job Centre's open 'til six._"

He'd given in in the end, the money probably swinging it and making his mind up for him. These were tough times and he was lucky to have fallen into this he supposed.

"_Fine," _he'd said. "_I'll do it._".

**_-xxx-_**

And so that was how it came to be that Tom Branson had ended up in Sybil Crawley's kitchen, blood pouring from his wounded hand as the lady of the house pointed an antique revolver in his direction. It was a meeting that would change both their lives forever, the beginning of a love story most unconventional in nature between two lost souls who are haunted by the ghosts of London town, even though they'll soon learn that happily ever afters' only exist in fairytales...


	2. An Echo of a Nightmare

_**So the muse has really come back to bite me on the arse for this story and I'm rather excited about it. It's not going to be a particularly long one, just a handful of chapters really so I'm sorry if the pace seems a bit fast. I don't know much about gangsters, terrorist organisations (the IRA in particular) or MI6 so there's a lot of artistic license in this story. All the spy stuff is based on what I know from James Bond films and so we've even got our very own 'M' (watch out for him, he's important). Anyway, let's get on with the show - enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

This isn't the first time he's been faced with someone holding a gun to his head, but it's been a long time since he was last certain that the person on the other end of it didn't have it in them to pull the trigger.

"How do you know?" she asks. "How do you know I won't hurt you...? I could kill you."

"Because you're more afraid of me than I am of you," he replies. "Now put the bloody gun down before you hurt yourself. Jesus Christ, you're the worst employer I've had in a long time."

"Em... employer?" It takes a moment or two for it to register but, when she realises what's going on, she lowers the gun and finally looks away from him. "Oh, you're the... shit, sorry. I didn't think you were starting until next week."  
"Well Thomas didn't think that you'd be back until next week. He wanted me to come in and get to know the place while there was nobody else here."

She nods and sets the pistol down on the table behind her. "Well then, seeing as you aren't burgling me, I suppose the polite thing to do would be to offer you a cup of tea or something."

Tom smiles. "Tea would be... lovely," he says. "But I don't suppose you've got a plaster or something?"

"Top drawer, just to your left. There should be some in there... God knows I need them. I'm a disaster in the kitchen... unless I've used them all, obviously. Look, actually, can you sort the tea out? I should probably go and put some clothes on," she says. She talks about a mile a minute and she's not entirely sure that he's keeping up (though he'll get used to it, everybody does eventually).

"Sure. How do you..."

"Milk, two sugars," she replies before he's even finished. "I'll be back in two seconds." She disappears then, light and nimble on her feet and leaving a trail of water behind her. The whole situation is so wonderfully absurd that he suddenly bursts out laughing. He can't say that she's at all what he expected - younger, certainly, and any woman in possession of an antique revolver is a curious thing indeed. Gwen and Thomas hadn't really told him all that much about her, but the way she'd looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights, practically holding a gun to his head makes him think that there's a story to be uncovered beyond the young heiress afraid of fortune hunters. Much of Tom's working life has been about intelligence gathering, observing people and predicting their next move - he was damn good at his job, but something tells him that Sybil Crawley will be harder to decipher than anyone he's ever encountered.

The lady herself returns to the kitchen some five minutes later, wearing a pair of bright blue joggers and a white vest top, her damp hair plaited messily and still dripping from the ends.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she says, sitting down at the table and reaching for a chocolate digestive. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Tom says nothing, only raises his eyebrows as he takes a drink of tea.

"So you're my new... handyman."

"Apparently so," he replies, taking a seat opposite her. "Though the job description didn't go into much detail."

Sybil leans back in her chair, mug clutched firmly between her hands. "What do you know about me?"  
"Nothing, really," he replies. "Though I know that you've had some problems with the paparazzi."

She laughs, though there is no warmth or mirth in it. "**Some** problems would be an understatement," she replies, her gaze wandering towards the window. "They've started trying to come over the walls. I've seen them in the garden. They stand outside all night just watching, waiting, for something... anything to happen. You were in the army, right?"

"Yes," he replies, again the lie far too easy to tell.

"So you're not completely adverse to violence?"

"That's not how it works," he says. "I'll hurt someone before they hurt me, but not just for the sake of it."

"But if they were a threat?"

"It's all subjective, boiling down to what's happening an exact moment in time. But if what you're asking is if I'd protect you, then the answer's yes."

"Good, then that's all I need to know. Just for the record though, don't believe all the stuff you read about me on Google. It's mostly tabloid bullshit and fuck knows who wrote my Wikipedia page."

Tom smiles. "I've never cared much for gossip, I prefer fact. Gossip and speculation leads to all sorts of trouble."  
"And that's exactly why I need you... do you want to see the rest of the house?"

"Sure, why not."

_**-xxx-**_

She leads him out into the garden and, even in its neglected state, it's still rather breathtaking. The trees and bushes have been left to run wild, growing in a way that creates a canopy above them, though letting in just enough sunlight to make the place pleasant and inviting.

"I love it out here," Sybil says with one of the first genuine smiles he's seen on her face since they've met."It's the one place outside of the house that I truly feel as though I have any privacy. In the summer, I can sit out here for hours and just lose myself in a good book. I don't need to worry that they'll find me."

She carries on walking; leading him down the garden and towards an old iron gate behind which lies a brick structure that looks almost as old as the house itself, if not slightly more dilapidated in appearance. "The garage," she says. "And the old chauffeur's cottage from back in the day. You'll find everything you'll need in here but, if there's anything missing, just let Thomas know and he can sort it out. Oh and, you wouldn't happen to know anything about cars, would you?"

"I come from a family of mechanics. I spent my summers watching my father work and my brother owns a garage not far from here," he tells her. "So, yeah, I think I know a thing or two."

Sybil nods, satisfied with his answer. "Good, then maybe you can help me with this." She flicks on a light as they step through the door and the sight before him makes Tom feel like all his boyhood fantasies have come true.

"That's a DB5," he says with absolute wonder in his voice. "Where did you get this?"

"It belonged to my father," she replies, leaning back against the side of a much newer sleek black Range Rover Sport. "I don't know much about cars, only that I like this one. It goes fast and makes a loud noise... it looks cool too."  
"Cool doesn't even begin to cover it," replies Tom with a grin as he runs his fingers across the bonnet. "Though it should be covered up, not left exposed like this. I'll have a look at it and I can ask my brother..."

"No," Sybil protests. "Please don't bring your brother here. It's nothing personal, it's just that... well, it was a big step for me to admit that we needed somebody else here and for me to let you in. I don't think I'd do well adding more people into the equation... at least not yet."

"I wasn't going to bring him," Tom reassures her. "Just ask him about parts and things. Are you always this apprehensive about other people?"

"Other people have hurt me far too many times in the past," she replies. "I have every right to be apprehensive. I trust you... at least I think I do, so please don't cock things up."

"I won't," Tom promises. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Good... because I might just hold you to that."

_**-xxx-**_

He decides to stop by the lock up on his way home, needing a few more items of clothing and personal effects until he can find his own place and move it all out. He never thought that the sight of it all packed up like this would make him feel melancholy but, despite all the things he's done and the places he's seen, there are few memories here and he can't help but ask himself whether or not any of it was worth it. When he hears news of the people he grew up with settling down with their stable jobs, getting married and having children, he wonders what life might have been like if he hadn't got embroiled in all of this, if he'd gone home and married his childhood sweetheart after graduating from university like he planned.

But it's too late for "what if's" now.

He doesn't intend for this whole driving Miss Sybil thing to be permanent, but he supposes it's the first step on the road to a normal civilian life...

Or so he thought.

"I hope you don't mind, but we took the liberty of emptying your flat."

Tom looks over his shoulder to see a familiar figure emerge from the shadows - one whom he thought he'd seen the last of long ago.

"Miss Smith, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

He and Anna Smith go back to the beginning. She'd decided early on that she wasn't cut out for life in the field and had settled for a desk job instead - she was good at organising people, making sure they were exactly where they were supposed to be at exactly the right time. Anna was always one step ahead, logical and rational - she knew how to talk sense into people, into agents who might not be thinking straight under the most intense of pressures...

Agents like Tom.

He might not be alive if it wasn't for Anna, and he's run out of fingers on which to count the number of times she's helped him out of a sticky situation, and her voice in his ear had always been calming and reassuring...

But now it's like an echo of a nightmare.

"They know you're back," she says. "And they want to see you."

Tom sighs. "I'm done with all that," he replies. "You know that... they know that."

"I know, but things have changed. We can't talk here, but there's a car waiting to take us back to headquarters."

"Something tells me I don't have much of a say in this."

"You're right," says Anna. "You don't... this is an order that's come from the powers that be."

**_-xxx-_**

The unmarked Jag takes them deeper into the heart of the city and towards the South Bank - it had always perplexed Tom as to why an organisation supposedly as secret as MI6 had one of the most inconspicuous buildings in London for its base. The journey is almost entirely silent, save for when Tom notices two rings adorning Anna's finger that certainly hadn't been there the last time they had seen one another.

"So, does Mr Smith know about your secret double life?"

"He didn't at first," she tells him, flicking through the numerous emails on her iPhone. "He thought I just did some sort of admin work for the Home Office. Then we got married and he became my next of kin so I had to tell him the truth."

"I can imagine the paperwork," Tom replies as he stares out of the tinted windows. "That's why I've never liked the idea of marriage... too bureaucratic."

Anna looks over at him with a raised eyebrow. "You don't like the idea of marriage because you prefer sleeping around."

"It's not sleeping around," he corrects. "I just don't want to be tied down... and if you knew how many times I've managed to get a woman to open up to me and tell me valuable secrets, the powers that be would have offered me promotion long ago for the intelligence I've passed on."

"I bet their secrets weren't the only things those women opened up either..."

Tom smirks. "Look at you all grown up and making sex jokes now that you're a married woman," he teases.

"My eyes have been opened."

"And I bet those weren't the only things that were opened."

She swats his arm playfully and, for the second time that day, Tom finds himself laughing at a situation that is absolutely beyond absurd.

**_-xxx-_**

The office is familiar, but the man who now occupies it is new - he stands by the window, gazing out across the river as he explains the reasons for summoning Tom here so unexpectedly. He looks too young to be in charge, probably about the same age as Tom himself, with boyish good looks and a suit straight from Saville Row.

They call him M. No name, no number - just M.

"Most of them left after what happened," he says. "My predecessor took voluntary retirement though I'm not quite sure what happened to the others."

"Is that why I'm here?" Tom asks. "To be reminded of my mistakes and the hell they unleashed. Because you don't need to remind me, **sir**... I'm still living in that hell."

M turns to look at him at last. "That was nobody's fault," he says quietly. "It was a mistake, like you said. We're only human and we all make them."

Tom sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "But six agents are dead because of me. Six families left without husbands, wives, mothers and fathers... how could you ever possibly trust me again after that?"

"Because you're a damn good agent," M replies, sitting down on the other side of the desk. "If you don't mind me being so blunt. You've got a family too; I've read your file, so where do they think you've been all this time?"

"Afghanistan. Extended tour of duty."

"They think you're an army man?"

Tom nods. "On the intelligence side of things so I suppose it's not a complete lie. But you still haven't told me why I'm here."

M takes a file from his desk drawer and turns a photograph round to face Tom. "I know you know who this man is," he says, watching as Tom visibly tenses.

"Dara fucking Farrell," he growls, momentarily forgetting his place.

"He's in London," M tells him. "He has debts to settle with several prolific members of the IRA. We've got our eyes on them, but there are more pressing concerns on home shores. They won't cause much of a problem if Farrell doesn't give them the money he owes... the money they need... you're going to stop him from doing just that."

"How?"

"This man might not be so familiar to you," M says, showing him another photograph. "Though the name may be."

"Crawley," Tom reads. "Robert Crawley..."

"Late father of Miss Sybil Crawley. A recent acquaintance of yours, I believe."

"I don't... how do you..."

At that moment, a third person enters the room and Tom's jaw drops when he sees her face. "Gwen?"

"You and Miss Dawson have met," says M. "Good, then everything is coming together quite nicely."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you," says Gwen, pouring herself a glass of water. "But I knew you'd run otherwise."

"Too bloody right," Tom mutters. "Though are any of you actually going to tell me what's going on?"

"Almost twenty years ago, Dara Farrell was part of a plot to eradicate the Crawley family. Robert was one of our own and, like you, he made a mistake..."

"Only he was murdered."

"Along with his wife and two eldest daughters."

Tom closes his eyes and lets out a breath he didn't even know that he'd been holding. So far, he's only spent several hours in Sybil's company, but already he understands a little bit more about her. He doesn't want this to affect the way he looks at her, though he knows that it almost certainly will.

"By some miracle, Sybil survived; she wasn't near the car when the bomb went off, though the poor child was left with nothing but a crumbling old house and an excessive fortune, all of which was held on trust until she turned eighteen. You know as well as I do that Farrell's been preoccupied in recent years but, now that she's come of age and he needs his money, she's a valuable asset to him. Her money would fund a terrorist organisation and God knows what could happen then."

"So you want me to look after her?"

"You know how Farrell works. You were on the inside for years."

"And I gave the game away. I got caught... he knows who I am."

"But he doesn't know your connection to her," M says. "And, even if he finds out you're back in London, it'll throw him off her scent. I've already got a team working on the intelligence; they've got your back should you need it."

Tom sighs and leans back in his chair. "I understand the links to the IRA," he says. "But, with all due respect, why is this one girl so important that you're overseeing this entire operation?"

"Because," M replies, looking right at him and the blue of his eyes suddenly becomes uncomfortably familiar. "I'm the only family she has left."


End file.
